


Crumpets

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bed Warming, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard learns of one of Thranduil’s more questionable traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumpets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pt_tucker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/gifts).



> A/N: This is more than half Pt_tucker’s idea. One of us had to write it, and apparently I was elected~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil enjoys the walk well enough. He knows every last crevice of his kingdom, but he never tires of viewing it through new eyes. He can still remember the first time he carried a young Legolas clear to the other side of the Greenwood and back again atop a new steed. Bard is younger than Legolas was then, but older by his own years. He still has a certain awe about his face when Thranduil shows him things mortals rarely see. They draw a white elk to them and pet its grand snout, and Thranduil bids a black-velvet butterfly into his palm. When he sings, deep and wistful, enough of them flutter to his arm for him to present his lover with a bouquet that bursts into a bacchanalia around them, made all the more beautiful by the joy in Bard’s eyes. He turns to Thranduil after, his smile wide and dimpling his cheeks, and he sighs, “You never cease to amaze me.” Thranduil offers his arm, and Bard laughs and wraps around it. 

They wander too far from his castle to make it back before the stars, though Thranduil could easily summon something to ride. It’s been too long since he slept beneath an open sky, and so he guides Bard down beside him amongst the roots, and they sit against the base of an old, withered tree that will see many thousands of years yet. As Thranduil strokes a long finger down the side of Bard’s face, Bard mutters, “I suppose we’ll have to head back soon.”

“We have to do nothing we do not wish,” Thranduil muses, donning his own smile. Bard’s a lord in his own right, but he’s still unaccustomed to power. Thranduil demonstrates his control in every moment. He curls his fingers around Bard’s scruffy chin and tilts him up for their lips to meet. The kiss begins chaste, pretty and lilting like their stroll, but soon Thranduil’s tongue is tracing Bard’s seam and plunging inside. Bard responds with the same. He leans forward to put his weight behind it, his face tilting and breath puffing along Thranduil’s cheek. He kisses hard and rough, the way harried mortals do when they fear they won’t have enough time to memorize their mates. Thranduil allows it because he enjoys that passion, and there’s a strength to Bard’s love that he finds intoxicating. 

Before their mouths are finished with one another, Thranduil slips his hand into Bard’s coat, down beneath his tunic. His broad chest is dusted lightly with hair, his muscles firm in Thranduil’s greedy hands. The feeling of his lover’s body only spurs Thranduil on, until he’s pinning Bard against the tree and stripping away his coat, scrunching up his tunic and reaching into his trousers. Bard grunts against him, but moans instead of protests. He barely manages to ask a husky, “Here...?”

“What is wrong with here?” Thranduil purrs, his fingers tracing the jut of Bard’s well-defined hips. “This place is mine as much as my bed...” And as much as Bard himself. 

But Bard looks skeptical. He often acts as though he’s the only rational one, the voice of reason and responsibility, as though Thranduil, in all his regal glory, is all about the play. He asks, “You, of all people, want to roll around outside in the dirt?”

“My dirt,” Thranduil points out, correcting, “and it is not uncommon for my people to sleep under the stars.” Bard snorts. Thranduil feels only amused; he supposes he likes his lover thinking him too good for certain things.

“And your guard?” Bard asks, gesturing at the empty trees all around them. “Shouldn’t an Elven King be more protected than this?”

Thranduil lifts an eyebrow. “Just because your eyes cannot catch my guards does not mean they are absent.” Indeed, several trusted archers followed them from the gate, but they keep a respectful distance; this night is for Thranduil and Bard alone. Bard looks around as though he’ll spot them, but of course, his eyes are mortal and can’t. 

Thranduil’s only just returned his hand to Bard’s thigh when the leaves rustle around them. Bard straightens up instantly, tensing. Thranduil doesn’t bother; his guards would let nothing malign through, and even if they did, he could best anything in these woods. But it’s only a small elf that comes walking up to them. The familiar creature stops at the edge of their clearing and bows in two, his honey hair sweeping off in the subtle breeze. Thranduil can feel Bard relaxing beside him, and Thranduil calls, “You may approach, Meludir.”

The elf does so. He takes several more steps towards them, only to stop at Thranduil’s feet, and this time he falls to his knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly touches the ground. He’s young and overzealous, but his voice is respectfully restrained when he says, “I apologize for interrupting, my lord. But I was informed my king would not be returning to his bed tonight. I wish to know if I should continue to warm it for tomorrow, or if you have need of my services here, or...?” He’s too inexperienced to finish, and he trails off in puzzled hope. Thranduil has no immediate answer; he hadn’t spared such an inconsequential issue any thought. 

Bard, on the other hand, snaps around. The pity he held at Meludir’s extravagant bow is now replaced with irked confusion, and he asks Thranduil tightly, “His services...?”

“He is merely my bed warmer,” Thranduil answers, waving a dismissive hand. He isn’t particularly surprised to see Bard’s over-reaction. Bard looks first disbelieving, then incredulous with a tinge of irritation. 

Through nearly grit teeth, he asks, “And how exactly do you have a bed warmer when you also have a lover?”

Thranduil patiently explains, “I am well aware of how limited mortal relationships tend to be, and I assure you that I have adhered to that. Meludir is _not_ a lover, merely a luxury item. He provides neither romantic connection nor sexual release, merely the comfort of physical touch and excess body heat. When you are in my bed, you are welcome to use him accordingly.” Bard looks suddenly appalled, though Thranduil imagines Meludir would be quite pleased at the notion. He’s always eager to serve, and Bard is a particularly handsome specimen. Bard opens his mouth, makes a spluttering noise, then gives up with an expression of utter exasperation. 

“I should’ve expected this from you.” If it’s meant to be an insult, it doesn’t work. Thranduil allows a smirk to tug at his lips. He is, indeed, quite unique, although the concept of a bed warmer is hardly his creation. 

He asks, “Would you like Meludir dismissed for the night?” Although he disagrees with Bard’s reaction, he’ll respect his lover’s wishes. At this, Meludir finally dares to peek up, unadulterated hope undeniable across his pretty features. He even bites his plush lips and gives Bard one of his dazzling smiles, which makes Bard squirm against Thranduil’s side. It’s clear that he doesn’t wish to be relieved of duty, though it isn’t his decision.

Bard’s always been softhearted. Finally, he sighs, “No,” and shakes his head tiredly, surrendering. With a hint of sarcasm in his voice, he groans, “Who am I to deny the strange customs of elves?”

Pleased, Thranduil rewards his lover with an even more beautiful smile, then a kiss. 

Then he holds out his arms, and Meludir delightedly crawls into them. He slips so easily right into Thranduil’s lap, and Thranduil rearranges his slender legs between them, reaching over him to pull Bard up close. Meludir’s warm body adds a pleasant heat to the night, and his cute face always seems to add light to its surroundings. 

But Bard is the man that Thranduil loves, and he shows it with another, fierce kiss. Thranduil claws a hand in Bard’s hair, jerks him across their bed warmer, and thrusts a ravenous tongue into his mouth, claiming him beyond doubt. Thranduil doesn’t relinquish his hold until Bard is nearly trembling in want, and Meludir is in danger of being crushed beneath them in their wild lovemaking. 

Instead, he lets Bard kiss him again, softer. Meludir is a good boy, as he always is, and only lies still to watch, ever in waiting to serve his king. Tonight, Bard receives the benefit just as much. When a yawn twists itself between their mouths, Thranduil accepts that his mortal partner requires sleep, and he allows them to lie down on either side of their living pillow. They both use one of his shoulders to lie on, their hands connecting over his stomach. The contented heartbeat below is a peaceful lull to Thranduil, and Bard quietly admits, “I suppose I can see the advantages. ...Although I wish you hadn’t picked someone so young and pretty.”

“He has nothing on you,” Thranduil assures Bard, squeezing his hand. “And I had him before you, but I shall replace him if you wish.” Meludir’s body suddenly tenses, a distressed sound leaving his mouth, but he doesn’t protest. Bard grins like he’s about to chuckle. Clearly, he sees how cruel that would be. 

He sighs, “It wouldn’t seem right to put the poor thing out of a job. I guess I’ll just have to trust you.” Thranduil grins, deliberately sly. Bard only smiles again at the bait. They kiss one last time over Meludir’s chest, and then they close their eyes to sleep.


End file.
